


Not With a Bang But a Whimper

by AliceinHyruleBastion



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Hurt & Comfort, I see you K, Just keep moving along, M/M, Minor Violence, past self-harm, you saw nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 21:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10558230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceinHyruleBastion/pseuds/AliceinHyruleBastion
Summary: Tired, broken, worthless:These are the titles Prompto associates himself with.The unwanted, the extra, the outsider.He doesn't deserve any of these royal kindnesses.(Self-hatred is a slippery slope, and in the midst of battle it can take its toll. However, there's a prince in the background who refuses to let him fall.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> This is my first time posting something of mine online, so I'm taking it slow and starting simply. I'll hopefully be posting some of my other works as well, and if interest arises I'll upload stuff faster!  
> On another note:  
> I am so sorry Prompto, you don't deserve this.  
> (But I'm not that good of a person whoops)  
> That aside, I hope you enjoy! Please comment/critique and let me know how you liked it!  
> [It seems that my original formatting/italics didn't transfer over, but I'm too lazy to try and futz with it right now, so I apologize in advance and hope it isn't too confusing!)

He's tried his best to ignore it.

He really has.

 

He rubbed away the memory of any smile directed at him and how he'd felt so warm, scratched away the fingerprints from his wrists and shoulders and everywhere he could feel the press of the clumsy, absent hands of his friend-  _the prince- no, king,_  he reminded himself. He'd long buried the idea that  _anything_  directed at him was one long blurred by the musty lines of friendship, and those damn sepia-colored touches did little to aid the burn. He knew why his eyes were drawn constantly to him like a broken compass, why  _his_  name was always on his lips in the midst of battle, and knew just who it was who has broken this dam inside of him.

 

His fingers itched and swept over the black-and-white lines of his inner wrist, chasing and tracing the sharp lines he'd cut through them so long ago, the scars like notes out of harmony, like a clock with a gear loose, or a heartbeat missing a step.

 

_Except that machines don't have hearts,_  he reasoned bitterly to himself, fingers clenching involuntarily over the soft skin and tearing it with nails run ragged. He didn't wince at the bite of pain, and only looked down at pale strips of swelling that had risen with an absent sigh and a pang of irrigation. He slid the leather band back over the mark, locking away his frustration, and carved a smile back onto his face as false as the blossoms who'd bloomed too early in the odd warmth of a winter day.

 

\---

He knew he didn't look well, knew just how pale his skin was, knew just how dull his eyes were and how deep the bruises under them; he  _knew_  he looked terrible, and wrecked, and just  _tired_ , but the last thing he has expected was for a cup of something warm to be pushed into his hands while a blur of black had settled down next to him. 

 

"I know you think no one notices," he'd started, voice low, "but you're not the best at hiding when you don't feel well."

 

Those words had settled into his stomach like lead. (Dammit, he'd have to try harder.)

"I'm fine, I promise," he argued, "jus' tired, is all."

 

Lie after lie after lie.

But that's okay, right?

 

A huff of breath and a gentle knock to the shoulder. "Just drink it, okay? Iggy said it'd help you feel better."

 

He looked down at the mug before holding it up to his nose, smelling something spicy and dark hidden in the sweetness of the chocolate. He cautiously took a sip, and felt his eyes widen at how delicious it was, and the aftertaste left a pleasant tingling on his tongue. He closed his eyes and sighed, feeling the cool of the night buzz around him and soothe a little of the itchy burn under his skin.

 

"Good?"

 

He opened his eyes again, meeting softer blue ones peering at him. (He burnt away the drop of his stomach and swallowed down the ashes.) He hummed instead. "Yeah, it's good; just the way I like it."

 

A smile- a rare one, and one that scaled his insides like a scintillating opal butterfly. (He crushed it into dust.) "I thought so. I know how much you like sweet things."

 

He laughed at that, and lifted the mug in faux salute to his friend. "Cheers, buddy," he said, before taking another sip. "Thank you," he added, quieter, more fragile.

 

"Of course," he answered immediately.

(He'd smiled into the rim of his mug, but drowned it under the warmth of the drink.)

 

A warm hand pressed into his back, and he'd nearly jumped out of his seat. He looked up in confusion, trying to mask the surprise he'd felt zig-zag down his spine. "Feel better, okay? And just tell me next time you aren't feeling your best."

 

Tell  _me_.

Not tell  _us_.

( _Scrape away the words, you know it was a slip of the tongue._ )

 

"I'll try my best," he said casually, slipping a goofy smile on his face.

 

Another smile. "You seem to be feeling a little better," came the remark, "the color's even come back to your face."

 

He flinched at that, and pressed his fingers to his cheeks to feel that they were indeed warm, and felt himself flush even darker.( _That's not me feeling better, stupid-) "_ That's just the drink," he mumbled, but got a snort in response.

 

"If that's what makes you feel better," the other answered, standing up and brushing off his pants. 

 

He just raised his mug again in a sarcastic salute, ignoring the ache that pulled at his heartstrings as he was left by himself.

Again.

 

He sighed bitterly and clenched his hands around the mug, watching as the pressure pulled his skin taut and bone white until he looked as inhuman as he felt.

 

_Let it go; he'll never see you that way._

_You won't let him._

 

Damn the gods that made him, and damn each and every one of those ugly flaws of his, from the barcode to his wrist, to the stretch marks staining his skin in stripes, to the unholy heart that beat inside his forest of a ribcage.

 

\---

The battle had left them bruised and bloodied, bleeding lines cut into skin and mistakes carved into hearts.

 

It shouldn't have been a hard battle.

It really shouldn't have.

 

But he had messed up, had slipped, had been pinned to the ground with a trident (like a cruel mockery of Lunafreya's) pressed harshly into the skin of his throat, defenseless, because he had been so distracted by someone else he hadn't minded his own back.

 

He could feel the tines breaking the skin above his trachea, his voice breaking in a desperate attempt to snatch air as his fingers scrabbled at the sharp edges, but the pressure only doubled as the wielder bore it down with a wicked grin and white starbursts of pain exploded in his vision.

 

He couldn't even form the word "Help" on his blood-stained lips.

 

Fitting.

 

But as darkness settled in behind his eyes in cherry red and hues of black, he heard a muffled cry of his name that swam through the noise and blood of the battle, and he was only able to see a streak of black ice and a strangled yell before his eyes rolled back and slipped shut into unrelenting darkness.

 

\---

The first thing that registered were three points of throbbing pain in his neck, and a burn that chased the air in his throat as he sucked in a huge breath, only to splutter a cough in a rattling and scratchy voice.

 

His fingers flew to his neck as the battle flooded back to him, and he felt tightly wrapped bandages tied around his neck like a poor impression of a noose. He touched the edges, feeling the skin under it crack and pull painfully as he experimentally twisted his neck. His fingers traveled up to his face, sweeping over his cheekbones to feel more sore spots (and probably bruising) as well as shallow cuts littering here and there across the skin. 

 

As he shifted up in his makeshift blanket (he was in the tent, he realized), a bolt of pain raced through his right hip and he gasped, hands flying to the spot instinctively. He didn't feel any cuts or blood, and pried away the waistband of his pants to find more bandages wrapped around his leg and hip and tying just under his navel. He could feel a strange numbing just under the cloth, and, pressing a finger to it, he could feel a latent blizzard spell humming under it. 

 

_Probably Ignis' idea,_  he thought to himself, and tested the width he could move his leg, only to be rewarded with an instant shock of pain. Broken. He bit his lip to keep the cry of pain quiet, and felt tears prick the back of his eyes.  _Dammit, what happened?_

 

Frustrated, he scrubbed his hands over his face and tore his fingers through his hair, angrily cursing himself. If he hadn't been distracted like a stupid teenager then he wouldn't be in this position. He wouldn't be what was undeniably a burden, an annoyance, and....

His mind flashed back again to the battle, and his fingers tightened in his hair. 

 

If only he'd kept to himself.

If only he'd done what he should've.

If only he'd hidden away, hidden away that part of himself he knew wasn't right.

If only he was put together correctly,

If only he was human. 

If only he was human.

If only he was human, and normal, and didn't claw for the affection of a friend he knew would never look his way.

If only 

If only 

If only 

If on-

 

"Hey, I thought I heard you wake up," a voice cut in, and his fingers froze as his eyes squeezed shut, feeling his breaths come in shallow and broken.

 

"Woah,  _woah_ , Prompto, what's wrong?" Noctis said, and he felt a body kneel down beside him, and fingers gently touch his shoulder.

 

" _Don't_ ," he snapped, voice raspy and sharp. His breath hitched, and his fingernails dug into his scalp, white-hot moons of pain biting into it.

 

" _Hey_ ," Noctis said lowly, and gently-but with enough force to not be shaken off- grabbed his wrists, pulling his hands down from his face, and forcing him to face him. "What's wrong?"

 

He wanted to say something, wanted to snatch his hands away from him, but felt as if magnets under his skin kept his fingers desperately glued to Noctis'. He couldn't say anything, couldn't breathe but for a sharp hiss through his lips.

 

"Prompto, you're  _crying_ ," Noctis said quietly, and his eyes opened at the words. Sure enough, they were burning with the salt of tears, and he felt them slip down his cheeks.

 

Cold.

Ugly.

Unwanted.

 

"I-" his voice cracked. "I'm sorry," he spit out, head bowing down and eyes squeezing shut again.

 

To his surprise, Noctis said nothing, only carefully pulling Prompto towards him being mindful of his hip, and pulled his head into his shoulder. "Don't be," he said quietly, "you didn't do anything wrong."

 

"But I-"

 

"No, you didn't."

 

He yielded to the embrace, though he could feel the rational part of his brain screeching at him to move away, but he was too tired and to (a)pathetic to try.

 

He could taste the words burning and boiling under his tongue, but he couldn't get them out, couldn't breathe, and the only sound that came out were strangled sobs.

 

"There's nothing wrong with making a mistake, and there's nothing wrong with you," Noctis said quietly, and Prompto twisted his fingers into the fabric of his coat at the words.

 

"I-"

 

"Just let me hold you."

 

Those words, those  _five damn words_  broke him all over again, and he felt himself failing and falling and giving in to the monsterhave he had tried his best to subdue.

 

But, fate doesn't play by the pleading rules of humans, oh no.

 

So he let himself surrender to his heart, and let himself feel, just for a little bit, like a human. 

 

His world, so scarred and misshapen, ended not with a bang, but a whimper as he fell to the true gravity of the night sky.

 

_Oh well._

 

 

 


End file.
